


What the Wind carries to thee

by Maewn



Series: We are not the heroes [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 22:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16710865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maewn/pseuds/Maewn
Summary: The sound of the wind's rustling is soft, whispering past Sylvia’s ears as she sits near her father’s forge.She cannot see the colors that her mother says exist in the forests surrounding the city. She has known only soft darkness since the day she was born.





	What the Wind carries to thee

The sound of the wind’s rustling is soft, whispering past Sylvia’s ears as she sits near her father’s forge.

The bellows are loud, but the heat of the fire is nice as Riften has become cooler in the grip of fall.

She cannot see the colors that her mother says exist in the forests surrounding the city. She has known only soft darkness since the day she was born.

There are footsteps that clunk past her, and Sylvia knows that sound to be one of the guards on patrol. They circle about the walkways over the rushing sound of the river. The marketplace is its usual thrum of noise that Sylvia has learned to tune out to hear other conversations and happenings.

Riften is the city of thieves, renowned for it, and for the trade canals that now flow through, boats arriving on each new tide.

She can smell the sharp tang of oil, and the smell seems to linger on her tongue as she breathes in Riften’s cold air. Father is polishing some armor or weapon.

“Father?” she asks, when she is mostly certain that he is not too busy. The sound of cloth against metal has stopped.

“Yes?” Father says.

“Will Mother be home soon?” Sylvia asks. “It’s been a while since she was home.”

Father sighs. “She should be home soon, lass. There’s been trouble up in Winterhold, and she’s helping where she can there. The Arch-Mage will return her to us when the work is finished.”

Sylvia has heard of the Arch-Mage, in whispered conversations between her parents when they think she is asleep. The leader of the College sounds scary but fair.

Mother says that the Arch-Mage is her own woman, unbowing before anyone, be they a king or emperor. Mother likes her.

Father not so much, but Sylvia thinks that is because Mother is away from home so much more now, called away by the Arch-Mage’s word alone.

Father’s footsteps come closer, and his warmth settles beside her on the bench. Sylvia leans against him. He smells like soot and oil and one large hand settles against her shoulder.

“I miss her too, Sylvia,” Father says. “But her last letter said she would be home before Harvestide, remember?”

“I remember,” Sylvia says. He’d read the letter aloud over dinner as they sat beside the fire in Honeyside’s warm interior.

Sylvia likes it when he reads aloud to her. Mother is good at reading to her too, but Sylvia knows that Mother struggles sometimes with the Nordic tongue, preferring her own Altmeri.

Sylvia herself speaks Nordic with the easy fluency of a native, and Mother has been teaching her Altmeri, though Sylvia speaks it with a halting and stilted tongue. The words curl about each other like snakes, she thinks.

Mother had said that as a young girl she had often thought the same. “Be grateful, my little love,” she had said, slender fingers interlaced with Sylvia’s, “that you were not raised a noble in the court of King Emion, may he rest in peace, for you would have had to learn both the language of the noble caste and that of the merchant caste.”

Mother was of the warrior caste, directly below the merchant caste, and had traveled for many years before she met Father. “A blacksmith and a battlemage,” she had said, laughing as she retold the story of their meeting as she tucked Sylvia into bed. “What an odd pair we are. But love is ever found in the strangest of places.”

Sylvia wonders if she will ever find someone to share her life with as Mother and Father have.

“There’s a week yet, lass,” Father says, interrupting her musings. “She’s not been wrong before.”

There’s a sound at the bridge, the clunk of wood hitting with each step. It’s a familiar noise to Sylvia, who has listened all her life to the various sounds that fill her dark world.

A staff.

“Father,” Sylvia says, reaching carefully to tug at his arm. “I hear a staff.”

“A mage’s staff?” Father asks, and she can hear how his leather apron creaks as he shifts, possibly looking around.

“I don’t know,” Sylvia says. People other than mages carry staffs and most sound the same, the only variation being what the staff hits as the person walks. “It’s…sharp.”

It’s clear in a way that Sylvia doesn’t know how to describe. A sharpness that seems to cut through the air, hard and ringing as the staff moves from wood to stone.

“Well,” Father says, and his voice is rueful and warm, “I’ll be.”

“I’m baack!” Mother sings accompanied by the swish of her robes. “Did you miss me, my darlings?”

“Did we miss her, Sylvia?” Father asks, mischievous. “I don’t know…”

“Hmm,” Sylvia says, musing.

Mother sighs, “And here I thought my return would fill you with such joy. Clearly I was mistaken.” There is a thump and Sylvia feels the air shift at her ankles, a hand brushing over the hem of her dress as Mother sits down before her. “I shall have to just die of misery then,” there is a lightness to Mother’s tone that speaks to her jesting.

Sylvia smiles. “Welcome home, Mother.”

“I am glad to be home, little love,” Mother says. “Just in time for your birthday even.”

“Did you get me a present?!” Sylvia asks eagerly. Mother’s hands grasp hers, calloused fingertips brushing her palms pressing something cool and smooth into them.

“What is it?” Sylvia asks as Mother’s hands withdraw.

“What do you think it is?” Mother asks, not unkindly.

Sylvia frowns, turning the object over in her hands. It’s four sided, smooth and cold, the edges are not sharp, but rounded. It is heavy in her palms, made of stone perhaps? “A box? Is it a stone box?”

“Close,” Mother says. “It’s a rune stone. I had it made specially for you, little love. There’s an enchantment on it.”

“What kind of enchantment?” Sylvia asks.

“Well,” Mother says and her hands touch Sylvia’s again, guiding Sylvia’s fingertips to places on the box. “Do you feel the rune here?”

There is a groove beneath Sylvia’s thumb and she smooths her thumb over the dip in the stone, finding other grooves branching out from it.

“Yes.”

“This box can never be lost,” Mother says. “It will always find a way back to you. It will keep you warm even in the coldest of nights. And whenever you miss me when I’m gone away, you may hold this box and think of me and I will hear you and you will hear me.”

“We can talk while you’re gone?!” Sylvia squeals, excited.

“Yes, little love,” Mother says, chuckling. “Not for long, but yes. Though I hope that you will not need to use it for the time being. I intend to stay home for a while.”

“Thank you, Mother!” Sylvia says, leaning forward to hug her.

“I’m glad you like it,” Mother says warmly, her arms tight around Sylvia’s back.

Sylvia has missed her hugs.

“Now,” Mother says, “I’ve ridden all the way here, and would like to go take a nap. You can join me if you’d like or you can sit out here with your gift.”

“I’ll be fine out here,” Sylvia says, grinning as she realizes that there is no chill to the air. The heat of the forge’s fire is still present, but the coolness that has pervaded Riften in the last month is gone.

“Does it still work if it’s in my pocket?” Sylvia asks.

“It will,” Mother promises, and she presses a kiss to the side of Sylvia’s head. “I’ll be out in a bit and then we can have dinner.”

“Okay,” Sylvia says. “Sleep well.”

Mother gives a yawn. “Oh, I intend to, dear.” There is a shuffle of fabric as Mother stands, one hand pressing against Sylvia’s knee as she steps away, towards Father.

“Glad to have you home, love,” he says gruffly. “Get some rest.”

There comes the soft sound of a kiss and Mother sighs. “I missed you,” she murmurs.

“Well, you’re home now,” Father says. “Now go on, off to bed with you. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mother says and her footsteps trail away towards Honeyside, before vanishing behind the wooden thud of the front door.

Sylvia turns the box over in her hands, feeling the rune engraved there.

“Sylvia,” Father says. “I’ll be polishing more armor. Let me know if the smell is too much.”

“Yes, Father,” Sylvia says as the sound of cloth against metal resumes.

She hums softly to herself, basking in the warmth of her mother’s gift. She wonders if the carved rune is Altmeri or Nordic, she can’t tell. Her mother has carved the letters of the alphabet into stone so that she could learn the shapes even if she couldn’t see them, but this shape is unfamiliar to her.

Ah, well, Sylvia thinks, she can ask Mother when she’s awake. So she sits beside her father’s forge, listening to the sounds of Riften, and waits.


End file.
